Something
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "There's something about Arietta that makes the words stick in Sync's throat, and he doesn't know what it is." Sync would say he despises the world, but the world happens to include a certain God-General whom he does not hate. But then, if thoughts of her keep on preventing him from sleeping like this, that might change soon. I do not own Tales of the Abyss or the cover art.


_Here, have a thing I wrote a year ago and never published!  
_

* * *

There's _something_ about Arietta that makes the words stick in Sync's throat, and he doesn't know what it is.

Maybe it's on the surface of her smooth skin, pale and hairless and bared to the world in places. Sometimes it's splattered with blood, or sunburnt, or bruised, or smudged with dust. Sync finds that the plain white of her body is more visually interesting when it's smeared with red and purple and brown.

But then, perhaps it's tangled in her silken pink hair, hanging almost all the way down her back. The only reason it's ever brushed is because Legretta demanded she do so daily after her hair got so knotted it took half an hour to straighten it out again. Sync wondered at the point; she seemed more at ease with herself when she looked half feral.

Or, it may rest in her expressive crimson eyes. He's seen so many emotions there, from the sparkle of joy to the gleam of fury to the shimmer of sorrow. She doesn't need to speak or move for Sync to know exactly how she feels. The only thing he doesn't know about her emotions is what she thinks of _him_ ; he wishes he knew why he cares.

She rarely talks to him, but Sync still enjoys listening when she does. Not because of what she says; she usually ends up pining for Ion, or scolding him for his curtness, or offering a few pointless and petulant complaints—but her voice is quiet and shy and the sound of it is pleasant to his ears, even when she speaks in the harsh language of the ligers.

Sync also finds a peculiar sort of comfort in the movements of her mouth. Her lips are typically chapped, but on special occasions, they're pink and glossy and he wonders in the back of his mind if they feel as soft as they look. And as much as he likes her to purse them in thought, keeping them shut for once, he looks forward to seeing them part into a smile or grimace, revealing her strong white teeth.

Maybe the _something_ trails along the contours of her upper back. Sync has seen them shrug in confusion, hunch in submission, and shake in barely suppressed laughter—and every rolling motion sets him on edge, though he can't imagine why. He thinks it has something to do with her bare shoulders and covered arms; the thought of her tugging off her fingerless gloves is enticing in a way he can't describe.

Or, perhaps it's the gentle, forbidden curves of her chest and hips, hidden just beneath the fabric of her dress. They aren't as ample as Legretta's, but their proportions fit the slenderness of her waist. Largo once caught him watching her from a distance, and told him as unreadably as ever that he had best keep his eyes to himself. A woman's body, he warned, was a dangerous thing. (But Sync didn't think of _hers_ until after he said so.)

Her soft hands might have held that _something_ , clutched in unwillingly manicured fingernails. He's felt them rake across his face before in a few of their spats, almost dislodging his precious mask—the one he wore mostly for her own protection. They're almost claws, like those of ligers; sometimes she paints them red, and Sync finds that he likes that too, even if it's his own worthless blood that stains them.

But then, it may be her legs, long and lithe, ending in quick and dainty feet. Her tall boots cover most of both features, but her dress is just short enough that not all is concealed. Stretched taut along her visible thighs are garter-slings holding up unseen stockings. More than once he's wanted to slip his fingers beneath them, to pull them back and snap them against her skin just to hear her yelp.

Sync sighs frustratedly and turns over in bed, opening his sleepless eyes and running his hands along the empty space beside him. The way his blood stirs when he looks at her, or even thinks about her like this, is maddening—but the emotion aching in his chest is not anger or hatred. It's something unfamiliar, something new.

And that infuriating _something_ makes his heart beat faster and his breath come more shallowly and his mind go momentarily blank when he catches sight of her. It makes Sync tell her to go away, and for some odd reason it makes him as glad as he is annoyed when she invariably doesn't listen.

It makes him dangerously curious, considering things that never mattered before. Sync's fingers yearn to brush hers, and his tongue wants to know what her lips taste like, and whenever she passes him by he drinks in the scent of wildflowers until long after she has disappeared from view. He doesn't know the source of these desires, but he knows it is impossible to fulfill them.

 _Something_ makes him clumsier around her, stumbling over his words and feet alike. He knows Van can see it, too, because he never assigns them to the same mission. Sync and Arietta have never been allowed to fight side by side… only against one another.

He picks fights with her because it's the only way to make her touch him—and it gives him an excuse to touch her, too, even though she retaliates. Every scratch and scrape is worth it just for their closer proximity, and for the soft and meek apologies she makes when she has calmed down, even if Sync was the one to start it. Nothing he does ever makes her consider him a true enemy, and the knowledge simultaneously serves to comfort and antagonize.

No; it's not her skin or her hair or her eyes or her mouth or her curves or her arms or her legs. Not alone. He notices them all in agonizing detail, senses sharpening for some unknown reason, whenever she passes by; no single specific feature stands out enough for it to be the source of the _something_ , or he'd be able to defend himself.

Sync lets out a long breath, closing his eyes again in the vain hope of falling asleep. Perhaps this _something_ is Arietta herself, all parts of her together—and he wishes, with all the heart he does not have, that he could find it in himself to hate it.


End file.
